Alfred de Musset

The hearth, where you burn wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about with Bible pictures, the seats deep and easy, a single Titian in a gold frame, a white bust or so upon a bracket, a rack for the journals of the week, a table for the books of the year, and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal books that never weary.

Shakespeare, Molière, Montaigne, Lamb, Sterne, de Musset's comedies, the one volume open at Carmacene and the other at Phantasio, the Arabian Nights and kindred stories in Weber's solemn volumes, Borrow's Bible and Spain, the Pilgrim's Progress, Guy Mannering and Rob Roy, Monte Cristo and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, immortal Boswell, soul among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, and the State Trials.

The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bedhead, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Birch's Letters from the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar.

End of The Ideal House by Robert Louis Stevenson.

And thus she suffered not at all by her ruse.

Some two centuries later, George Sand, who had read of the incident, tried the same trick to win back Alfred de Musset.

In her case, it was a right dismal failure.

De Musset, too, was entirely cognizant of the story of Ninon's shorn hair, and even without her hair, Ninon was lovely, while even with hers, George Sand was hideous.

So the romance ended.

Followed a bevy of loves well-nigh as brief, most of whose heroes' names are emblazoned on the book backs of the world's libraries.

And after this populous interregnum came Alfred de Musset.

De Musset was a mere boy, but his wonderful poetry had already awakened Europe to ecstasy.

The hearth, where you burn wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about with Bible pictures, the seats deep and easy, a single Titian in a gold frame, a white bust or so upon a bracket, a rack for the journals of the week, a table for the books of the year, and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal books that never weary.

Shakespeare, Molière, Montaigne, Lamb, Sterne, de Musset's comedies, the one volume open at Carmesine and the other at Fantasio, the Arabian Nights and kindred stories in Weber's solemn volumes, Borrow's Bible and Spain, the Pilgrim's Progress, Guy Mannering and Rob Roy, Monte Cristo and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, immortal Boswell, soul among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, and the State Trials.

The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bedhead, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Birch's Letters from the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar.

End of The Ideal House by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The hearth where you burn wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about with Bible pictures, the seats deep and easy, a single Titian in a gold frame, a white bust or so upon a bracket, a rack for the journals of the week, a table for the books of the year, and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal books that never weary.

Shakespeare, Molière, Montaigne, Lamb, Sterne, de Musset's comedies, the one volume open at Carmacene and the other at Fantasio, the Arabian Nights and kindred stories in Weber's solemn volumes, Borrow's Bible and Spain, the Pilgrim's Progress, Guy Mannering and Rob Roy, Monte Cristo and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, immortal Boswell, soul among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, and the State Trials.

The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bedhead, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Birch's Letters from the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar.

End of The Ideal House by Robert Louis Stevenson Read by Paul Fleischmann

And she was in keeping with it.

The beautiful Andalusian Marquise of De Musset's ballad come to life in foggy England.

The Quaker name of Ruth suited ill with that rich Southern beauty.

Had she been called Cleopatra, that royal name would have well matched her appearance.

And thus she suffered not at all by her ruse.

Some two centuries later, George Sand, who had read of the incident, tried the same trick to win back Alfred de Musset.

In her case, it was a right dismal failure.

De Musset, too, was entirely cognizant of the story of Ninon's shorn hair.

So, the romance ended.

Followed a bevy of loves well-nigh as brief, most of whose heroes' names are emblazoned on the book backs of the world's libraries.

And after this populous interregnum came Alfred de Musset.

De Musset was a mere boy, but his wonderful poetry had already awakened Europe to ecstasy.